


Anything

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Office Relationship, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 10:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13098171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Fic prompt: Secret Santa





	Anything

**Author's Note:**

  * For [autumnnnn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnnnn/gifts).



> For @lordpbaelish, who gave me the prompt of Secret Santa (last December oops)
> 
> [I hope you didn’t mind having to wait a year lmao ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> I also wrote this in between flights with like 2 hrs sleep so uh I hope it’s coherent]

 

           “Oh crap.”

           The elevator doors  _ dinged _ open just as a  _ ding _ of cold recollection washed over Sansa.

           Her last final of the semester was this afternoon – a horror she would very much like to  _ not  _ think about right now (nor the look of sheer panic on Margaery’s face as they stared up at each other over problem one). Math never was Sansa’s strong suit, and whoever thought it was  _ humane _ to make it a requirement to take calculus could shove it.

           Still, in all the  _ fun _ (read: panic, horror, crying) of studying and cramming mixed with a late-night vending machine dinner, Sansa had completely forgotten today was the holiday party.

           “Good afternoon,” she said to the receptionist. The woman was on a call and only nodded. The woman didn’t notice Sansa’s lack of either food for the potluck, or gift for the secret santa.  _ I’m sure they’ll understand, whoever it was _ , she told herself on the walk to her cubicle. Sansa didn’t bother looking for the email – she didn’t want to dwell on the disappointment. At least, not as much as she could be. 

           Sansa wasn’t the only intern at Lannister & Baratheon, and she prayed to the Seven that she wouldn’t be the only one whose brain had farted on her the moment she left the exam room. 

           She very much would have liked to  _ not _ go to work today at all. Recuperate, and all that. But the money was much needed, given how absolutely ridiculous the living expenses in King’s Landing were. She roomed with both Margaery and Myranda (friends since freshman year), though during the semesters they often lived in the dungeon of studio more than their apartment. Still, an absurd rent split three-ways made Sansa cry every time she wrote the check.

           On her way to work, she vaguely remembered today being good to go in because there wouldn’t be much work to do. Easy money for easy work. A pity she forgot  _ why _ .

           An hour she spent at her desk, forcing her mind to come back from the hell that was Aegon Hall room 254. Most of her mind had returned when one of the other interns (who, sadly,  _ hadn’t forgotten _ his dish or present) rounded up people for the lunch-time holiday party. Sansa walked towards the kitchen, half-wondering if she could hide out in the bathroom for fear of sheer embarrassment, and half-wondering whether she could jump out one of the windows and land safe enough to run away.

           An assortment of smells hit her first, then the sight of endless dishes lined up on the tables that had been arranged like cafeteria lines. Sansa shuffled along behind the other intern (Christian, she thought his name was. He went to her rival school. He was talking to someone in accounting in front of him). 

           “Thought you had an exam today?”

           Karyn sidled up behind her, plate in hand. Sansa smiled – the woman was only a few years older than her, but they had become fast friends in the office. She sat on the other side, but their shared boss was a thread that pulled their friendship together. It was always a treat whenever Lyonal wasn’t in the office. 

           Sansa smiled back as she scooped salad onto her plate. “Hey, Karyn. Yeah, I did. It was in the morning, though, and I wouldn’t want to miss the potluck.”

           “Free food – the Bat Signal for university students.”

           Sansa laughed. 

           Karyn piled a heaping portion of some sort of yellow rice mixed with vegetables. “How was it? Your exam?”

           Sansa let loose a long sigh – one that she felt had began deep in the recesses of her very soul. Her co-worker laughed. It was evidence enough that the exam didn’t go nearly as well as Sansa hoped. All she could hope for at this point was a very,  _ very _ generous curve. “Just need to pass the class.”

           “Amen, girl.”

           The dessert table was laden with an assortment of cookies and brownies and cakes. Darrin had made his signature cheesecake, of which Sansa was glad she managed to get a slice before it had run out.

           And there it was. The damning spot right there for her own cake.

           “Did you bring anything?” Karyn asked when they poured drinks (non-alcoholic, though there would be plenty of alcohol in the presents, Sansa was assured. It was the easiest thing next to a gift card).

           That earlier dread weighed her down. She didn’t feel particularly hungry anymore, except she definitely was going to eat. For a start, everyone in the office knew how to cook (or buy, as Yon did with the honey ham). But second, Sansa couldn’t remember the last proper meal she had. Candy and chips from a vending machine at midnight didn’t  _ exactly _ count as a meal. At least, according to actual adults.

           “No, I forgot. I meant to bring a lemon cake, but I was revising too much I ended up forgetting.”

           Karyn pouted. “I was looking forward to it. It was  _ sooooooo _ good, that bite you gave me last month? You better not forget next time!”

           Sansa smiled. It wasn’t the lemon cake she was worried about. “Yeah.”

           Others joined them, and most ended up eating standing in the kitchen rather than in the conference room. They talked of their upcoming trips during the holidays, the new projects they were looking forward to procuring, and the ones that just got sent to the client. Sansa piped in here and there, but as an intern, she didn’t know much. Even during parties, it was impossible to escape work talk. 

           Sansa had half a mind to slither out the back and back to her desk. Except Karyn grabbed her arm. “Time for the gift exchange!” The mirth in the voice was at odds with the dread in Sansa’s stomach.

           “R-right.”

           Spread across the large conference table was everyone’s presents. Most had holiday wrapping paper, and only two were wrapped in plotter paper (much better than the one that was shoddily wrapped in newspaper). It was optional to write your own name on the tag, but it wasn’t a difficult process of elimination. 

           It was an odd tradition, one that Sansa didn’t particularly care for (not that she was an intern last December. But the office she worked at the year before did White Elephant instead, which was better for someone (read: Sansa) who either didn’t want to participate or just didn’t want to, period. Here, they stopped White Elephant apparently because one of the executives kept ending up with the crappy presents: a pair of mop socks, a glittery binder, a sonic toothbrush that sang some pop song every time you used it.

           So they opted for Secret Santa this year, hoping for better presents. That wasn’t to say items (like alcohol) weren’t going to be passed around or shared like during a White Elephant, but still. 

           “Here’s yours,” Karyn said, plucking out a gift bag with pink and green tissue paper overflowing from the top. “And…..” The woman circled around the table, like everyone else, and Sansa was reminded of beasts stalking prey. “Aha!”

           Sansa bit her lip, standing on the edge of the room. Her fingers picked at the tissue paper as she watched everyone else pick out their gifts and rifle through bags or rip them open. Half were wine or whiskey or beer, and the other half were simple things. Gift cards, chocolates. There was a particularly  _ horrendous _ ugly Christmas sweater that got a giggle out of everyone. Sansa didn’t really care what she got, but Karyn urged her to pull the tissue paper out instead of ripping it into millions of pieces (thousands of which littered the floor around her feet). Hand lotion and body wash – a basic gift, one that Sansa wasn’t alone in getting.

           They had more drinks (alcoholic and non) and more desserts, and continued the same sort of talk that was an unequal mixture of work and life. All of them liked to think they had  _ lives _ , but they couldn’t fool anyone.

           “Where’s your present?”

           Sansa looked towards the exit – blocked. She was squarely in the center of the room, a feat she hadn’t even realized she’d done. Karyn must have dragged Sansa from the wall, in an effort of team bonding. Sansa loved her friend, but right now, she wanted to disappear into a million pieces like the tissue paper.

           “Who here  _ didn’t _ bring a gift?” Sloane asked (the same woman who asked the first question). The room (save for the ever-present crinkling of torn snowmen and Santas, and the silent clinking of bottles as preferences were passed around) was silent. Sloane pointed a finger and spun in a circle. Everyone on the end of it nodded a  _ Yes I didn’t forget _ .

           Sloane landed on Sansa. “You brought a gift, right?”

           She felt the entire room look at her (whether or not they were looking), felt like a millions eyes had sprung up in the spaces between bodies and chairs and focused on the shake in Sansa’s hands or the amount of effort it took to keep her eyes glued on Sloane.

           Her voice squeaked as she said, “Yeah.” Sansa tried to clear her throat in a half-assed attempt. Smiled.

           Sloane bought it. “Huh. Well, sorry Petyr, I hope you weren’t looking forward to diamond-encrusted cufflinks, but I don’t think any of us are  _ that _ loaded.” Breathy laughs transformed the awkward quiet back into casual conversations of work and vacation plans.

           But all the while – Sansa could  _ feel _ the weight of a single pair of eyes on her. And they were tinged a mossy grey-green.

* * *

           “Oh, Sansa! Can I speak with you a moment?”

           The elevator  _ dinged _ , the doors sliding open, and Sansa wanted nothing more than to jump in the car and slam the  _ Close Door _ button.

           She almost did, too. Except manners kept her feet in place as she looked over. That, and every mile of veins turned solid ice. She couldn’t move even if she wanted to.

           Petyr took measured strides towards her, careful (or maybe Sansa was imagining he was being careful, as if trying not to scare her away) in stopping enough steps away from her. As if he was giving her the option in that, too: run, or stay.

           The manners said  _ stay _ . But the way Petyr was staring at her, like he  _ knew _ something he ought not to, or like he wanted to say something he ought not to, screamed  _ run _ .

           Sansa listened as the doors slid closed and the elevator rumbled up to another floor. “Yes?”

           Petyr’s attention had been caught by the movement, and the way he slid his eyes back onto her… Sansa couldn’t help but feel that lingering dread whisper  _ You should’ve run _ . He sidestepped to lean against the wall between elevators, careful not to hit the buttons with his arm. Let his gaze stay on her face, sweeping slowly down her – was he  _ examining _ her? Sansa felt unnerved. More than that: she felt undressed. It took all her will not to cover herself. 

           “I know you lied, Sansa.”

           There was no use  _ denying _ it, especially after that gods-awful performance she gave in the conference room. The lie wasn’t even an awful thing – something as simple as  _ Oh yes sorry I was busy with finals so I left it at home but I promise I’ll bring it in on Monday! _ would have sufficed. Or even an honest  _ I just forgot _ . 

           Still. Ever since she started working here, Sansa hadn’t worked with Petyr as much as the other architects. Lyonal was her main boss, though others vied for her work once they realized how clean her designs were compared to other interns. Or, she couldn’t really remember the last time (or the first time?) that Petyr had markups for her or a house to design. He was often busy with their clientele, who were absurdly rich and wanted to waste their money on homes that would take a solid hour to get from one side of the property to the other (a little bit of exaggeration, yes). Honestly, no one  _ needed _ that much money.

           And Petyr, from what she heard gossiped in the kitchen or walking through the cubicles, knew exactly what to say to clients to get them to spend more. To do what he wanted.

           And Petyr, from the few times they did talk or run into each other in the hall or the kitchen, never hid this lingering  _ gaze _ of his. At least, not when they were alone. Idle chit-chat –  _ what projects are you working on _ , and  _ do you like it here _ , and  _ how is school going _ – all the while his eyes spoke different questions.  _ Would you be willing to___? _ The ending was never finite. Sometimes  _ where _ his gaze fell (on her bare legs during the warmer months, or on her breasts beneath wool sweaters) would finish the ending for her.  _ Would you be willing to let me touch you?  _ Or:  _ Would you be willing to wrap your legs around my waist as I fuck you? _ Sometimes Petyr’s fingers (whether absentmindedly or not) would twirl along the rim of his mug. Slow, steady strokes around and around. Sansa marveled how long his fingers were.

           But nothing ever amounted from those unspoken questions. 

           She should have told him to stop (or in the words of Myranda, to  _ fuck off you creep _ ). She should have told him that this was  _ improper _ (though nothing had happened, really. And from those droning online courses they were all required to take, harassment was only harassment if it was unwanted). She should have told him “Goodnight,” spun on her heel, and left him there like girls do in movies.

           So when she  _ did _ finally answer, breaking a silence that must have been only a few heartbeats but felt like an eon, Sansa didn’t know where the courage (or foolishness) to lie came from. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

           The edge of his mouth twitched, as if trying to contain a smile. “Oh, don’t you?”

           The  _ playfulness _ in his words spurned her on. Or at least, that’s what she told herself. “I didn’t forget–"

           “Ah, so you  _ were _ my Secret Santa….” Petyr interjected, a smile finally winning over his lips. It gave her pause – she loved it, the way his face looked when he truly smiled. Something she wondered if his clients ever saw.

           Sansa continued, licking lips that were suddenly dry.  _ Don’t _ . “I didn’t forget, because…”  _ Don’t do it _ . “...because my gift is anything you want.”

_ You idiot. You’re going to get fired. Or worse _ .

           Or worse – because whatever that shadow that crossed Petyr’s face definitely fell in the  _ worse _ category.

           Sansa watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, not at all expecting this brashness from her. And to his credit, neither had Sansa. “Anything…?” he drawled out, not willing (or able) to fill the end of the sentence.

           A hundred images flashed in her mind, a hundred answers to questions that maybe even Sansa wasn’t sure existed. She heard each of them in his voice – offers to touch or tease or taste various parts of her, sometimes all at once. Sansa felt her heartbeat between her legs as each possibility turned more wicked than the one before it. And all of them were tinged with that Irish lilt that somehow made this spur-of-the-moment gift a million times worse. 

           Or, another hundred images. Of Sansa doing things  _ to  _ Petyr. As he asked her to touch or tease or taste him, and what she did to him. 

           The thoughts sent an improper throb between her legs.

           He smiled as he answered: “A kiss.”

           ... _ what _ .

           Sansa would have bet her entire savings (which wasn’t much, but still) on a gift more wicked than that.

           Somehow, the  _ innocence _ of a kiss made it...worse.

           “The longer you wait,” Petyr said, the crookedness of a smile plastered on his lips, “the more likely someone will  _ see _ .”

           And whose ass would be on the line then? Hers – without a doubt. The shining intern, snogging up one of the partners with the hopes of turning the internship into a full-time position. And if she was willing to  _ kiss _ him (they would say over their coffee in the morning along with little biscuits someone brought in), how long until she was desperate enough to  _ sleep _ with him…

           Sansa looked around. Most people were out of the office already. She tried to remember who was gone, and who was still here. Who was still able of walking in and seeing this entirely  _ improper _ act.

           She didn’t  _ have _ to kiss him, of course. How easy it would be to say  _ Just kidding! _ and walk away. How easy it would be to go to the other partners and tell them they’ve a creep in their midst, preying on the desperation (was that it?) of beautiful interns.

           Sansa thought her heart was about to burst with each closing step (there were three exactly, one two three) to Petyr. 

           She didn’t  _ have _ to kiss him, and yet— 

           She did.

           His lips were soft. They tasted of the mint gum he often chewed, and of the lingering sweets from the potluck. They tasted of an awaiting hunger that patiently waited months. They tasted of sin.

           A short, simple peck on the lips. That’s it. That’s all it should have been. Except, Petyr took the kiss as an invitation to begin answering his endless list of unspoken questions.

           He tangled those long fingers in her hair, pulling her face into his. The light stubble scratched at her skin, and Sansa couldn’t help but think how a line of it would ignite her on its path from her lips, down her neck, between her breasts, before finding her other lips.

           Petyr moved one hand around her neck, trails of her hair following along, tickling skin. He wrapped fingers lightly around her throat, pushing her jaw up with his thumb. It gave him full, uninhibited access to her mouth. Petyr nibbled her lower lip, pulling on it. Alternated between devouring the taste of her own lips – what did she taste like to him? – and biting. 

           She had gotten used to the rhythm of pushing and pulling, one that Sansa worked with him, that Sansa hadn’t realized his other hand freed itself from her hair and slithered down her body. Petyr cupped a breast – Sansa gasped – pushing thumb against her nipple. Pinching it between fingers, and Sansa hated that she wished her sweater wasn’t in the way.

           She heard – and felt – his laughter at her reaction

           Sansa had her own hands in his hair, hair that was as soft as she imagined. She realized it, or maybe admitted it. Running her fingers in his greying, pulling and pushing on his head as he devoured her mouth and continued to work relentlessly on her breast – Sansa had pictured this before. Many times. 

           There was wall  behind her (was it always there?), and Sansa felt his leg asking hers to part. She did, and knew she did it because her body was in control. Somewhere, like that dull sluggy way words weren’t really words underwater, Sansa heard her mind screaming at her. She didn’t have to think to know what they were saying: an amalgam of  _ stop what you’re doing right now _ , and  _ this so fucking wrong _ .

           A pity she wasn’t thinking.

           Petyr slowly moved his leg up and down between hers, and Sansa couldn’t help the roll of her hips to match. “Good girl…” Petyr cooed. A bubbly thing filled Sansa – quickly replaced by a burning flame that ached to consume her as he moved faster, bit at her jaw. Petyr had both hands on her breasts now, relishing in the feel of her as much as Sansa was relishing in how much her body  _ craved  _ this. 

           And an ache it was, gods-dammit. There wasn’t enough  _ friction _ with his leg to really get off, no matter how quickly she rubbed up and down his leg. And that was the point, she realized later – that was what Petyr  _ wanted _ . Her using him like a wanton thing. Tearing down her own mask of polite smiles and perfection. Aching for that sweet release that he could give her, that was too, too far away.

           Aching for him.

           “You know, sweetling,” Petyr whispered, pulling himself back from her, back into rationality. A rush of cold filled the space where he once was. Sansa fought against the moan at the loss of his leg, his hands. There wasn’t enough air to quiet the hammering in her heart – or the one in her core. Rationality flooded back into her mind, too. Or at least, she thought it was rationality in Petyr’s actions, until he added with a vile smirk: “I’ve also heard that a blowjob is a great last minute gift idea, too…”

           She wondered how bulging her eyes were, how obviously her gaze flitted to his legs (to the hardness pressing against the black material, one that had been rubbing just below her stomach.  _ Look at what you do to me _ , he said with his movement of his leg against her core.  _ Look at what you’ve done _ . Petyr let loose a quiet chuckle. 

           A kiss on the lips was one thing. But a kiss between his legs…

_ I did say ‘anything’ _ .

_ So? Doesn’t mean you have to give him anything. _

           Sansa opened her mouth-

           “Ready, Petyr?”

           They turned as Stewart approached, hat already on his balding head and a red-and-green striped sweater mapping out the contours of his belly. Stewart continued, oblivious to the  _ scene _ he nearly walk in on. And from the way he was smiling at them – an  _ actual _ smile, not at all the ones Petyr often gave out – he hadn’t seen anything. “The Davyes are on their way already. Should be a quick meeting – if it isn’t, then you aren’t doing your job right.” Stewart gave Petyr a hearty laugh and a clap on the back.

           Sansa felt cold. Frozen.  _ He could have seen us… _ And the desperate way she was clawing at Petyr, she was rubbing her core against his leg, in the fucking lobby of their  _ office _ . Gods, what had overcome her?

           If Petyr felt that same fear, he didn’t show it. His mask was set back in place. “Oh, I don’t imagine the actual meeting being more than, say, five minutes? If that. They’ve already picked out their plot of land and are practically begging us to have plans done already.”

           “Don’t they all.” The other man saw her finally. “Oh, Sansa! Silly me, I hadn’t seen you there.” Stewart pressed the  _ Down _ button. 

           “It’s okay…” She almost didn’t hear their conversation, her heart was beating too loud. It was a wonder they couldn’t hear it, too. Or at least, Stewart couldn’t. Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if Petyr’s was as frantic as hers was.

           He was still thinking about the kiss, of course. About the feel of her breasts – it was all in those grey-green eyes. 

           The elevator  _ ding _ ed.

           “We can finish our conversation next time?” Petyr began as the two men entered. “Oh, and thank you for your gift.” Petyr winked at her as the doors slid closed. Not even waiting for an answer. As if he  _ knew _ what she would have said anyways.

           And the worst part – worse than the fact that, yes, Sansa hadn’t at all been imagining the lewd way he undressed her with his gaze, or the way his fingers would mimic what he’d wanted to do over and inside her, or even the kiss he had eked out of her. None of that was worse than the fact that Sansa knew he was right.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [I know this was just a big tease, but my brain didn’t make it with me on this trip lmao]


End file.
